


To Everything a Season

by subjunctive



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Background Canonical Character Death, Episcopalian Tullys, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Holidays, Interfaith Starks, Jewish Starks, POV Sansa, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 23:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13041399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: Thanksgiving isn’t Sansa’s favorite holiday--that’s Christmas, of course--but it’s as good an opportunity as any to bring everyone together. Around Easter the whole family was still too broken up about the accident to do anything, so this is Sansa’s chance to remind everyone that they still have each other, that they’re still a family.It doesn't go well.





	To Everything a Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bex_xo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bex_xo/gifts).



> For the Holidays round of the @jonsaexchange, for bex-xo. Sorry for the lateness, and I hope you like!
> 
> I tried to write fluff and this came out. As a certified Angstmonster(TM), I can't seem to help myself.

Thanksgiving isn’t Sansa’s favorite holiday--that’s Christmas, of course--but it’s as good an opportunity as any to bring everyone together. Around Easter the whole family was still too broken up about the accident to do anything, so this is Sansa’s chance to remind everyone that they still have each other, that they’re still a family.

How her mother managed everything around the holidays, Sansa has no idea. She made it look effortless. Of course, her mother had help--a cook and Dad and sometimes the older kids; Sansa herself was a dutiful helper.

This year Sansa’s all on her own, and she’s got the younger kids with her overnight, too. It only takes five minutes after Aunt Lysa drops them off for Sansa to know she’s made a huge mistake.

Between Rickon’s animal antics and Arya practically climbing the walls, she wishes not for the first time that Jon didn’t have to work during the day. He’d know what to do with them. They’d listen to him, like they never did her.

In a bout of frustration she finally gives the kids Mya’s Netflix password and lets them park themselves on the couch. Her roommate will probably have something to say about the new recommendations waiting for her on her account when she gets back, but at least they aren’t messing up her carefully placed table arrangement, the one she splurged on. There isn’t much decorating for Thanksgiving unless you want to go the handprint-turkey route, but Sansa wanted to do something reminiscent of their mother, even though they’re in her cramped apartment instead of at home.

A knock sounds at the door. Sansa’s too busy pulling the turkey from the oven and finagling all the side dishes back in to answer it immediately, but there’s a patter of little feet in the entryway and the creak of a door opening. At least someone’s making themselves useful.

Rickon’s voice: “Dad?”

 _That’s good,_ Sansa thinks vaguely in relief, _he’s been through dozens of Thanksgivings, he can figure out if the potatoes are done enough to mash._

“Sorry, little guy, it’s just me.”

The voice jars her. It’s Jon, not Dad.

Sansa’s heart thumps painfully as she remembers the accident, her chest feeling like it’s caving in all over again. She’s mostly past the chest-caving-in-and-feeling-lost reaction, except when it sneaks up on her like this. She presses her forehead to the cool surface of the refrigerator and counts to five with her eyes squeezed shut.

It’s gone quiet in the living room, too, though she’s not sure whether it’s because of Rickon’s outburst or just some especially captivating splash of gore and violence on the TV. Thankfully, Rickon’s happy to be picked up by Jon, too. If he’d thrown a fit, she doesn’t know whether she could have held it together. Sansa counts her blessings, few though they are; it’s the season, after all.

Jon greets her with a half-hug when he enters the kitchen. Sansa kisses his cheek.

 _He_ at least has managed to wear something respectable for a holiday dinner, unlike her siblings. It’s not a suit, but it is slacks and a button-down, and that’s something. Bran, Arya, and Rickon are in jeans and t-shirts, like they don’t remember that Mom and Dad used to make them dress up for these kinds of occasions. Or maybe they just don’t care.

“How are you?” he asks. They’re close enough now, closer than they ever were when her parents and Robb were alive, that the question isn’t merely rote.

“I’m fine,” she chirps, though it looks like he doesn’t quite believe her. “I just put the sides in to heat back up. The turkey’s resting. What’s that?” She nods toward the bags in his hands.

He accepts the subject change, thankfully. “Pumpkin pie, as requested. And something to drink.” Jon being Jon, he doesn’t say a word about her semi-hysterical call last night after utterly failing to make anything resembling an edible dessert.

Sansa eyes the six-pack. “Beer?” she asks doubtfully. 

“Cider. Seemed more seasonal.” He cracks one open for himself, the bottle letting out a cool hiss that sounds pleasant in the hot kitchen, but doesn’t ask her if she wants one; he knows she doesn’t drink.

Leaning back against the counter, he takes a long pull from the bottle. Sansa’s eyes follow the line of his throat as it bobs. Lifting her eyes to his, she finds herself meeting his gaze. A rush of shame follows quickly. This isn’t an appropriate time.

The time may be long past, in fact. It’s possible they’ve waited too long. It’s possible there’s not even a _they_ anymore. It’s been almost a year since they kissed in the front seat of her car. The accident followed quickly on the heels of that brief kiss, and since then, the timing has never seemed right.

Not to mention the crushing guilt.

Sansa turns back to the sink, where a colander of boiled potatoes awaits. “I still have the mashed potatoes to make.” 

“You could take a break,” he suggests. 

Sansa shakes her head. So far she’s managed to get by, even though sometimes it’s felt more like _scraping_ by. Her mother’s Thanksgiving, down to the tablecloth, is within her grasp. No giving up at the last minute.

“Jon!” Arya yells from the living room. “Come help me!”

Bran shouts in protest of this injustice.

Sansa resigns herself.

But--“I believe in you, Arya,” Jon says loudly, causing Arya to wail in despair, and rolls up his sleeves, studying the wreck of the kitchen counter. “All right. What am I doing?”

A wave of gratefulness rolls over her. “Will you get the butter and the”--she pauses to think--”half and half and . . . cream cheese from the fridge? I think?”

“How much?”

“It’s on Mom’s cards.”

Catelyn Stark was a traditionalist, and kept her holiday recipes on a collection of handwritten index cards, though she’d bowed to the usefulness of laminating them for protection and putting them on a key ring to keep them together. While most of sides are pareve and therefore can be eaten with turkey, a few from the Tully family cookbook, including the mashed potatoes, are decidedly not. 

“Two sticks of butter, a bar of cream cheese . . . holy shit,” Jon mutters. “No wonder they were so good.”

Sansa whirls on him, forgetting herself for a moment and pointing her finger in his face. “Aha! I knew it. I _knew_ you and Arya always snuck some even though you said you didn’t.”

They had always been allowed to decide how kosher they wanted to be. Jon and his mother Lyanna had been frequent attendees of the Stark family Thanksgiving, and Arya had taken after her favorite aunt and cousin.

A guilty grin pulls at the corner of his lips. “Maybe I just took home some leftovers.”

“You liar.” She hands Jon the potato-masher.

“One year I just didn’t eat any turkey so I could have the mashed potatoes.”

Sansa shakes her head and, impossibly, feels her spirit lift. “I wish they were here. Mom would be so smug that her cooking was such a temptation. And Dad would laugh, I think.”

“Robb caught me once with the mashed potatoes and gravy,” admits Jon. “He--” He mimes a mouth-zipping motion that sets them both off laughing.

“It’s strange to feel both so happy and sad at the time,” she confesses.

The look he gives her in response, his gray eyes so dark they’re almost black, tells her that he perfectly understands what she means. Warmth flutters against her heart, a light touch like bird’s wings. It makes her long for something more. For something to, finally, change.

“What’s going on?”

The interrupting voice is loud enough to make them jump apart. Her face heats. Sansa is acutely aware of how closely they’d been standing over the bowl of half-mashed potatoes. Too close for purely mashing purposes, or that’s how it might appear.

The voice belongs to Bran, who is standing in the doorway on his crutches with a frown. Bran used to be the sweetest of her siblings, but since the accident he’s changed. It’s understandable. But it’s hard to anticipate his mercurial mood swings, which make her nervous.

Sansa brushes imaginary dust from her apron and summons a bright smile. She feels as if she has done something wrong, but she hasn’t. “We’re just finishing up. Dinner should be ready soon.”

Bran’s eyes track across the room slowly, landing one by one on the turkey, the potatoes Jon is focusing on so intently, the recipe ring. 

“It’s all here,” Sansa assures him. “The green beans and the sweet potatoes and the dressing, the cranberry sauce, the carrots . . .”

She thought rattling off this familiar list would make Bran feel better, but it seems to do the opposite. His blue eyes narrow. His reaction throws her off-kilter, making her trail off.

“I don’t want any,” Bran declares, not meeting her eyes. The bottom of one of his crutches thumps against the floor.

Sansa freezes.

“Not hungry?” Jon asks neutrally, looking up.

Bran snorts in the eloquent way of fourteen-year-olds. “I just don’t want any of it, okay?”

“Okay,” says Jon, still patient and nonjudgmental. Like he’s waiting for Bran to say something. It feels like more is coming, like a storm is brewing just over the horizon and the first crackle of thunder has sounded in the distance. Sansa’s not sure she wants to know whatever it is.

“It’s not like it’s going to be the same, anyway.” Another angry thump.

Silence follows his words.

Sansa swallows. Is that what he thinks? She manages to find her voice long enough to say, “If you don’t want any, that’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ fine.” There’s a sudden sharp edge to Bran’s voice. “Even if you’re pretending it is, it’s _not_.”

“No one’s pretending anything, Bran,” Jon says quietly.

Bran produces another spectacular snort.

Sansa gathers the ends of her frayed nerves. “If you want to go home, you can. I can take you, or Jon can take you--”

“I can’t _go_ home!” Bran kicks the wall with his crutch. “And it’s not the same, it’s not, it doesn’t matter if you cook the turkey right, it’s _not_ right, they’re never coming back--”

“-- _I know that--Bran--_ ”

“--and you’re acting like you’ve just forgotten--but I can’t forget--”

“I haven’t forgotten anything!”

Bran’s shouting attracts Rickon, who begins shouting himself, though it’s nothing discernable, and Arya, who starts yelling at Bran. When all of the other siblings fought, Bran was always the peacemaker of the group, forging bonds and finding common ground. Without someone else to fill that role, the missing piece makes everything fall apart. No one else fits the bill very well: Rickon is too young, Arya is too stubborn, and Sansa prefers to avoid conflict altogether.

This, she’s a bit ashamed to admit, is the route she takes now. Shouting isn’t going to get anyone anywhere, she rationalizes. And she doesn’t want to be shouted at, she doesn’t _deserve_ to be shouted at, so she won’t be. Flinging off her apron, she pushes her way out of the kitchen and ducks out onto the balcony, her eyes burning.

The chill in the air feels like a slap in the face. It’s colder than she expected, she’s wearing a skirt, and she didn’t grab a coat or a scarf.

But it’s quieter, so she sits on one of the chairs and tucks her knees up, covering them with the hem of her skirt. For a moment she feels a spike of unwanted sympathy for Cersei Lannister and her deep ruby glasses of wine.

The voices inside are muffled but still barely audible. Sansa hears shouting, pleading, murmuring, possibly someone crying. When it dies down, she’ll go back inside.

The quiet offers less shouting, but more time to think, to brood. She keeps turning over Bran’s words in her mind. _You’re acting like you’ve just forgotten._ The accusation stabs at something deep in her. It's been true before, is the thing. She came out here to get away from it, but she finds herself worrying at it like a loose thread. Coming up with arguments, finding the perfect words that will make Bran understand.

After a few minutes, Jon slips onto the balcony. She doesn’t hear any voices even with the door open. He’s on his phone, murmuring to someone. 

“Thanks, Mom,” he says finally, taking the other chair and hanging up.

Sansa studies the darkening horizon. She doesn’t know what Jon’s about to say, but she’s pretty sure dinner is ruined. The only thing she wants to do now is crawl into bed and pull her blanket over her head. Forget this ever happened.

“How’s Aunt Lyanna?” she asks finally.

“Good. She’s good. Bran still wants to leave.”

“And everyone else?”

Jon hesitates, then plows ahead. “General consensus is that no one’s in the mood anymore.”

“Right.” She won't have to put on a sunny smile and pretend. Still, she wonders whether that would be better than this--this abject, anticlimactic failure.

“Mom and Elia are off at something and they won’t be back till later, but they said the kids can hang out at their place in the meantime. Play some more _Call of Duty_ or something. I’d take them to my place but it’s tiny. Figured it was better than calling Lysa.”

Sansa casts him a grateful look. “She’d never let me live it down.” Then she considers what he’s saying, and to her surprise finds herself capable of yet more disappointment. “Are you leaving now, then?”

Jon scratches his chin. “Do you want me to stay and help you clean up?”

His intention is ambiguous, the question neutral. She can’t tell whether his offer comes from a place of duty, or whether it’s his way of indicating he wants to stay. “Whatever you want to do is fine, Jon. If you want to watch the other kids, I understand.”

“I’ll stay with you, then, if that’s okay.” He smiles, just a quick twist of the mouth, but it gives her that warm, fluttery feeling again.

“Are you sure they’re going to be okay on their own, though?”

“I think Rickon will just tire himself out. Arya’s disappointed but okay. Bran’s past the tantrum-throwing stage and into the ashamed sulking stage. I don’t think they’ll be too bad. They can sort themselves out.” He pauses. “Do you want to come in and say goodbye?”

Not particularly. But she nods.

The goodbyes are short and awkward: Rickon doesn’t understand why he can’t eat mountains of food, Bran is stony-faced and silent, and Arya looks miserable with her eyes ringed red. But she gives Sansa a quick, cautious hug and Sansa promises to save some sweet potatoes for her, since they’re her favorite.

Jon tosses Arya his keys, which makes her brighten marginally. She loves to drive, and doesn’t get much chance without her own car. She gives Jon an enormous bear hug, and he swings her around for good measure before setting her back on her feet and messing with her hair.

When the door swings shut behind them, relief makes her sag against the entryway wall for a minute.

“I know he’s just having a hard time of it,” she begins, but can’t quite finish the sentence.

“Everyone is,” Jon says shortly. “It’s no excuse for . . .”

“Yeah.” The crease in his brow makes her want to run her thumb over it, smooth it away.

Cleaning up is a quiet affair. The piles and piles of food have to be cooled and put away, and the table stripped of its place settings and decorations. They work well together. It’s the sort of domesticity she’d never thought to dream about as a little girl, preferring grand romantic gestures, but it reminds her a little of her parents and how in sync they were. Lately that's looking a lot more attractive than romcom boomboxes. It brings something to mind she’s been thinking about.

“Do you know what Advent is?” she asks as they stack plates and tuck them away in the cabinet for the future.

“I remember seeing your mom's calendar. Countdown to Christmas, right?”

Sansa frowns. “Yes, but that’s not what it really is. I mean, it is, but it isn’t.”

Jon raises his eyebrows. “Explain?”

“The church calendar is all about seasons, right? So it’s Christmastide, and then Lent, and then Eastertide, and so on. Each one has a different meaning, a different mood. Christmas is a time of celebration. The arrival of the savior. But Advent comes before that. It’s the season of waiting.” She struggles to remember what the priest called it once. “The long, dark night. The _not yet._ ”

Jon considers this, nods. “Okay.”

“I know it’s important and everything, but I feel like it’s been Advent for a while, if that makes sense. There’s been a lot of waiting for things to get better. Not very much celebration. Obviously with everything that’s happened . . .”

“Yeah.” There's a heavy fellow-feeling to the word, a familiar weight that suggests he knows exactly what she means.

"It was a lot easier to put up with as a kid, even though it was agonizing, waiting for all the presents and for Santa and everything. You know?" 

Jon leans a hip against the counter. "Because you know it was coming." 

“Yes!" she exclaims. "And sometimes I’m just tired of waiting. Maybe it’s selfish of me. I don’t know.”

“I don't think that's selfish." Jon smiles wryly. "Or if it is, I think we're all selfish.”

She takes a deep breath, rubs her palms on her skirt. An urge has overtaken her, a sense that if she doesn’t say something now, she might never get around to it--a feeling that time is slipping through her fingers. “Good. Because one of the things I’ve been waiting for--I don’t think I want to wait any more. One way or another.”

With that declaration, she puts her hands on his shoulders and kisses him.

Jon makes a soft noise, his breath leaving him in a rush. His hands come to settle lightly on her waist. His lips are chapped, rough.

It’s a brief kiss. She pulls back to study his reaction. He's always been hard to read, and now is no exception.

He’s quiet for a long moment before he says, “So what you’re saying is . . . Merry Christmas?”

Sansa ducks her head and buries her smile in his shoulder while he shakes with repressed laughter. It doesn't fix everything. Tomorrow there's still going to be fighting and resentment and guilt and leftovers she doesn't want to look at, because they'll remind her of what happened. But a warm glow lights her from the inside at the knowledge that she knows she can do this now, lean against him and touch him and be held by him.

And kiss him. So she does it again.


End file.
